


(make believe) it's hyper real

by windsprout



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Questionable Author, Questionable Food Source, Sparring, allura goes Mom Mode, gays in space, keith is a ball of anxious nervous energy, lance vs the goo machine, shiro goes Dad Mode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsprout/pseuds/windsprout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Wormhole Incident, Keith can't sleep. </p><p>He's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(make believe) it's hyper real

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing? why am i writing about space gays who can form a giant robotic lion? why did i fall in love with this show?? 
> 
> who knows
> 
> kind of spoiler-y? nothing explicit but it's after the last episode. warnings for a depiction of a panic attack, minor injuries that come with NEVER SLEEPING ONLY FIGHTING ROBOTS, and boys who are really bad at talking about their feelings. pidge is the overlord. also nb. please just take this i've had this in my documents for like a week now i need peace i need to MOVE ON TO NEW PLOTS

The first time it happens, Keith is on round forty-three of the training simulation and can barely feel the tips of his fingers.  


“You’re gonna work yourself into a coma,” Lance points out uselessly, perched against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, and Keith is suddenly hyperaware of the sweat dripping between his shoulder blades and sticking to his shirt. He doesn’t know what it means to overdo it; his entire life has been a series of constant fighting. “Shiro thinks so, anyway. You missed dinner.”

“So they sent you to hunt me down?” Keith shoots back, cocking an eyebrow and slamming into the dummy with more force than necessary. His sword hisses a noise of protest, clanging harshly against the metallic exterior of his sparring partner, and it takes all his willpower to not go weaponless just to re-establish some sort of reality. Lance huffs a laugh behind him, more exasperated than amused, and Keith is suddenly just—tired.

“Pidge did, actually,” Lance offers. Keith chances a glance over his shoulder to see his audience push away from the wall and stride across the room, shrugging out of his jacket as he goes. Keith is immediately on guard, straightening up and calling off the training—successfully—before angling himself towards Lance in a defensive position. If Lance wants to fight, he’ll get a fight. “Shiro agrees though. I, somehow, ended up the messenger, so don’t shoot me. Or stab me. Preferably no stabbing.”

“Hand-to-hand,” Keith calls, bringing his fists up, and Lance pauses for a split second before grinning.

“When I win, you come to dinner to shut the rest of the team up.”

“ _If_. And when _I_ win, I get to borrow your iPod for a month.”

“Two weeks,” Lance tries, but Keith shakes his head, steadying his feet and anchoring his knees. Lance pouts, bottom lip jutting out as he narrows his eyes, but he finally concedes with, “Fine, whatever, but I’m still gonna kick your ass. _And_ you have to show up to _all bonding exercises._ ”

“Miss me that much?”

“You wish,” he mutters, getting in his own stance, and Keith can already see four different points of weakness that Lance is opening himself up to. Easy access. This’ll be over quickly. “If I can’t get out of Team Training for the Angsty Teenaged Soul or whatever, neither can you.”

Keith shrugs, momentarily debating a distraction route to throw Lance off, but he settles with waiting; despite the weeks—months?—they’ve been here, the only person Keith has willingly sparred with is Shiro. It had been weird and awkward at first, a little less so after Keith managed to actually pin him down, but Lance is a wild card. Always the wild card.

At least it’ll be something new.

//

As it turns out, Lance is a decent sparring partner once he gets going—until then, however, he’s easy to hit and easier to knock down.

“You’re—what the hell, man, do you ever leave the gym?” Lance breathes, chest heaving, and Keith huffs a laugh and shakes his head. Lance is pinned beneath him, face just barely turned away from the floor, and Keith can feel the shared heat between them from the exertion; a training simulation could never mimic the twist and pull of a human body, the strength of muscle and sinew and bone. “You’re _heavy_.”

“It’s called muscle, dumbass,” he mutters in response, his own lungs burning from use. “You managed to last longer than I expected though. Good job.”

Lance plants his face on the floor and snaps, “Don’t _patronize_ me,” and Keith snorts as he stretches out his legs. Lance is surprisingly comfortable, even if he is all sharp angles and spindly knobs.

“Not patronizing,” Keith admits after a few seconds of quiet, and it’s a bit too honest for his taste; this is his element, the one part of the castle-ship that doesn’t feel off limits or completely foreign, and Lance is here and whole beneath him with a fluidity few could match. The training dummies are responsive, reactive, but Keith prefers the unpredictability, the rush of adrenaline when one of his punches gets blocked only for a knee to find its way towards his abdomen. No weapons, no simulators, just _this_ , and Keith hates the unease that stirs in his veins at the realization. “You leave your left side open to attack and your feet are unbalanced. Easy to knock over. You’d be a walking safety hazard in a real fight.”

“I shoot a _gun_ ,” Lance points out, lifting himself off the ground, and Keith obligingly moves, shifting so he’s sprawled on the floor with his hands supporting behind him. “I just need to _pew pew_ , not… dance, or whatever it is you do with your sword.”

“My sword is an extension of myself,” Keith explains, a rush of words that he’s only half-aware he’s breathing, and Lance glances at him with genuine curiosity in the curve of his brow. It’s unsettling, but he continues nonetheless, gesturing with his hand as he says, “It’s like fighting hand-to-hand except more… coordinated, I guess. Wielding it becomes second nature. When you use your weapon, it should feel the same. If it’s a burden, you’re not using it right.”

Lance is silent, contemplative, and Keith catches the way he bites the inside of his cheek while staring at the floor; he feels awfully vulnerable right now, as though Lance holds some great power over him, and it’s why he doesn’t like conversations that skim past the surface. He’s being honest and Lance is actually listening, and all Keith wanted was someone to fight and an iPod.

“It doesn’t feel like a burden,” Lance finally says, shrugging noncommittally, and Keith breathes in deep, lets the rush of dizziness wash over him in familiarity. The moment is broken when Lance coughs awkwardly, apparently realizing what’s just happened, and he stands on unsteady legs and doesn’t meet Keith’s eyes as he says, “So, uh, you should come to dinner anyway. Before Shiro goes dad-mode on everyone.”

It was nice while it lasted, he supposes. Keith is too tired for this.

“Sure,” he murmurs instead, letting himself fall back on the floor as Lance beats a hasty exit, and his life is so fucking weird. “Whatever.”

Lance’s jacket remains on the floor.

//

Approximately two hours later, Shiro shows up with a platter of questionable food and a raised eyebrow, and Keith pauses in his training to catch his breath.

“This isn’t just you avoiding someone, is it?” Shiro asks, taking a seat on the floor; he sets a plate down in front of Keith after he slides his butt down the wall, and the questionable food doesn’t look so questionable up close. Hunk must have got his hands on some new vegetables, then. “Because I get that you’re all around that age—“

“We’re not _that_ young,” Keith mutters, picking up the fork and prodding at the jelly-like substance on his plate. Judging by the accompanying laughter from Shiro, it was a joke, and Keith offers a glare in return before adding, “I’m not avoiding anyone, I just—didn’t realize what time it was, I guess.”

“No one knows what time it is.”

“That’s fucking weird.”

The realization has a shiver chasing down his spine, momentary panic ebbing at his conscious, but Shiro’s nudge and quiet, “ _Language_ , honestly,” anchors him to the Here and Now. Maybe he _is_ spending too much time down here, but his room is barren and empty and really only fit to sleep, and if he’s not training, he’s idle. They can’t afford to be idle, not now, not with the reality of their situation sitting so heavy on their shoulders. Lance’s scars scattered across his abdomen will never fade away. Shiro’s a walking example.

“Hey,” Shiro says quietly, folding his legs out in front of him, “we’re making good progress. None of us will force you to join, but we want you there. Don’t doubt that.”

“I don’t,” he replies, and it’s only partly a lie. Avoiding the emotional turmoil that will inevitability come with the conversation, Keith smoothly changes the subject as he stabs the fork through the purple jelly and says, “Seriously, what is this? What am I eating? Does anyone actually know?”

Shiro takes the bait, possibly out of pity, probably because he understands Keith better than the others ever could, and says, “Allura called it… something, but Hunk added some creative flair.”

“Eugh,” he declares, but as he takes a bite, it’s really not that bad at all.

Shiro just laughs.

//

“The prodigal son is aliiiiiive!” Lance calls when Keith finally shows himself outside the training room and into the common area, towel strung around his shoulders and hair damp from the showers. “It’s a miracle, I’d say. Fit for a celebration.”

“You’re so weird,” Keith mutters, ruffling Pidge’s hair on his way out. It earns him a snort of laughter and a swat aimed for his arm. “Try harder.”

“I wasn’t trying at all!” is all he can hear, followed by the sound of a head-slap and Lance’s indignant noise of protest.

//

Eons—or, more accurately, maybe a week—pass, and nothing happens.

He doesn’t sleep very well.

//

He tracks down Lance in the kitchen a few possible-days later and takes a seat next to him on the counter where Lance is munching away at… something. It’s neon purple and twelve textures of _wrong_ , so Keith doesn’t ask, but Lance isn’t choking or convulsing on the ground, so it must be edible.

“It’s not that bad,” Lance offers before Keith can direct the conversation elsewhere, scrunching his nose up at the bowl of goop. “I mean, for space food. Hunk seasoned it with some of those weird plants we found a couple weeks ago. Moons ago?”

“Close enough,” Keith agrees, unable to tear his eyes away from the mess, and he’s half-expecting the goop to become sentient and attack him. It wouldn’t be surprising. It’d probably be the least surprising thing to happen this week, if he’s being terribly honest with himself.

“It tastes like raisins,” Lance adds dejectedly, poking at the heap with his spoon, and there’s such a terrible look of sadness on his face that Keith feels the need to awkwardly pat him on the shoulder; the only consolation is that he manages to bite back the _there, there_ that wants to escape him. “It’s like… the alien version of white people food.”

“Oh?” Keith offers, realizing his hand is still on Lance’s shoulder, and he drops it back on the table with a sigh. “Honestly, I just want a peanut butter sandwich. With strawberry jam.”

Lance finally looks away from the disaster of his lunch-dinner-thing and up to Keith with a scandalized, offended look on his face, and Keith blinks at the sudden switch as Lance mutters, “ _Peanut butter sandwich_? What is wrong with you, we are in _space_ eating slimy _gunk_ and you miss—miss _peanut butter?_ ”

Keith blinks, shrugs, and says, “That was all I could afford.” 

“You— _but_ …” Lance struggles, waving his spoon at Keith, and some of the goop lands on Keith’s hand. It’s just as gross as he thought it would be, and he makes a face as he shakes his hand out and tries to ignore the sensation of slime on his skin, glaring at Lance in the process. “ _Peanut butter_ —“

“Chill, man,” Keith grumbles, failing in his attempt to clean off his hand, and he wipes it on Lance’s shirt in retaliation. He gets a strangled sort of noise in response, Lance’s brain short-circuiting from what Keith can only assume is an onslaught of information, and adds, “That stuff feels nasty, by the way. You are insane.”

“Don’t insult Hunk’s cooking,” Lance manages, shoving the bowl into the sink and shivering like the melodramatic pilot Keith is familiar with. “Seriously, if we ever make it back to earth, I will show you _real food_ —no processed stuff, or bland _peanut butter_ , but actual, home-cooked _food_.”

It doesn’t sound terrible, actually, but the implications of the _if_ weigh heavily on both of them; it’s awfully sobering, reality, and they both look away as it sinks in, the kitchen falling silent save for the humming of technology all around them. They are strangers here still, walking on thin tethers, and Keith doesn’t know how to navigate this yet. He’s spared when Lance eventually breaks the silence.

“My mom made— _makes_ the best pastelito you’ll ever taste, trust me,” he mutters, fiddling with a string on the hem of his shirt, and Keith is hyperaware of his every movement. Suddenly Lance perks up, nodding silently to himself. “You’ll love them, seriously, you have to try them before Zarkon decides to blow up the whole universe.”

“Isn’t that what we’re trying to prevent?” Keith points out, eyebrow raised, but he’s grateful for the change of pace; a morose Lance feels out of place, a wound he’s desperate to close, and it’s not territory he’s familiar with. His gaze gets too caught up in the curve of Lance’s mouth, the slant of his nose and the cut angles of his jaw.

“Well, yeah,” Lance scoffs, hopping off the counter, “but shit happens, so we’ll add that to the List of Things We Have To Do In Case of Imminent Death.”

Keith supresses a shudder, tries not to think about what’s waiting for them on the other side of this war, and Lance stares at him for a few long, terrible seconds.

“You’re being weird again,” Keith points out, eyebrow raised, and Lance glares, sputters strangely before throwing his hands in the air.

“I need to go,” he mumbles, goo apparently forgotten in the sink, and Keith watches him leave with something like disappointment settling in his bones.

//

“You broke him,” Pidge tells him, computer seated in a small lap as Pidge watches him train. It’s slightly unsettling, but the peace and quiet had been grating on him. “He’s trying to one-up you.”

“I’m not even sure what the competition is,” Keith says honestly, blocking an attack aimed for his ribs and countering the dummy with an upward swing of his sword. It slices cleanly through the exterior, a whirring noise of warning before the bot begins its rebooting process, and Keith sighs. He’s yet to make it past level six, but there’s no rest for the wicked.

“An imagined rivalry,” Pidge adds, fingers clicking away at a speed Keith refuses to comprehend. If anyone were to take over the universe and succeed, it’d be Pidge, and that’s a sobering and frightening thought. Good thing they’re friends. “Seriously though, I think you broke him. He keeps having staring contests with the appliances.”

“Why,” Keith deadpans, shaking his head. Lance isn’t his problem, but it’s amusing nonetheless, and Pidge merely shrugs, eyes never leaving the screen.

“I think you offended him.”

“I let him keep his iPod!”

“You called him weird.”

“He _is_.”

“Definitely.” Pidge shrugs again, a bit more exaggerated this time, and Keith narrows his eyes before admitting defeat and powering down the simulation. He takes a seat across from the technological overlord and accepts the proffered pouch of water. “Honestly, I think he’s just confused. Puberty is a rough time.”

“We’ve all—seriously, you look like you’re twelve, how are you making puberty jokes right now?”

“I’m the smartest twelve-year-old you’ll ever meet,” Pidge retaliates easily, and Keith admits defeat, hands held in front of him. “Regardless, you’re both emotionally stunted.”

“Is this because of the puberty comment?” Keith asks, snapping off the cap and downing half the pouch in one go. His lungs burn uncomfortably, there’s a stitch in his side that’s been building for a week now, and his knee feels bruised and torn. Overall, he probably way overdid it this time, but the combat logs are all in his favour. “Because I know you’re not actually twelve.”

“No, dummy, it’s because you won’t leave the training room until you’re nearly comatose with exhaustion and Lance has been sullen and _weird_. Weirder than usual.”

Huh. Keith tries to recall how Lance had been the last time they sparred, but the last few—moon cycles? days? _weeks_?—have blurred together; it’s the monotone that’s getting to him, the lack of missions to keep them all adequately up to par, and it feels like ages since the last time they formed Voltron. Sometime around the wormhole, but that thought throws him back through the darkness and he’s in no mood to try and crawl out.

“You’re avoiding everyone,” Pidge continues, ignoring Keith’s probably obvious plight. He’s incredibly grateful. “I think Lance is taking it personally. Did I mention the staring contests?”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” he says automatically, confusion warring with annoyance warring with frustration because Lance isn’t his problem; they’re _teammates_ but he’s not the guy’s keeper, except that he can easily picture the bruised, bloody slant of Lance’s body following the explosion and that can’t be normal—none of this is normal, will never _be_ normal, and Pidge’s small hand over top his own shaking one just reinforces that they’re all three steps away from falling apart.

“Whatever’s going on,” Pidge begins, gently squeezing his hand, and Keith wants to run, to fight until he can’t breathe anymore, “you two can figure it out. Just _talk_ to him.”

This was a lot easier when they all just pretended to tolerate each other.

//

When he ventures into the kitchen later, his ribs are a spattering of bruises and his left wrist twinges with pain every time he moves; he seriously considers hunting down Allura or Coran to see if they have some sort of alien Tylenol, but his stomach aches with a hunger he can’t ignore anymore. He’s in the middle of his own staring contest with the dispenser when a large, gentle hand lands on his shoulder, and Keith spins around so fast the world spins with him and he nearly topples over. Hunk startles backwards before realizing Keith is about to do the same, reaching out a hand to steady him with a, “Woah, hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” to which Keith snaps back, “You didn’t _scare_ me, I thought—“

“Thought what? That I was an alien?”

Keith glares, if only to hide the fact that his heart is still beating wildly in his chest, and Hunk picks up on the not so subtle hint to drop it.

“Either way, sorry,” he says, letting go of Keith’s arm and stepping around him. “Thought I’d get a midnight snack. Pidge is still working on the system upgrade for the comms, so I’m taking a break. What are you doin’ here so late?”

“Uh,” he answers, the pinnacle of articulate, and he’s starting to feel like Lance. He moves to the side, giving Hunk access to the machine, and mutters, “I missed dinner.”

Hunk looks him up and down and Keith feels exposed, a shared secret of some sort, but the moment is broken just as quick; instead, Hunk shrugs, grabbing two bowls from the nearby dishwasher and handing one to Keith. He takes it, relieved to have something to do with his hands, and gives a nod of thanks.

“You didn’t miss much,” Hunk explains, pressing a few buttons on the dispenser while holding his bowl beneath the nozzle. It’s a blur of purples and reds and Keith really, really doesn’t want to know. “Allura and I _almost_ figured out how to make chicken-flavoured goo, but it’s kinda difficult when one half of a two-man team doesn’t know what chicken actually is.”

“I see,” Keith replies. He’s not really sure what else to say, which doesn’t seem to bother Hunk at all.

“Apparently our next stop has _fruit_. Real, actual fruit. Or, well, alien fruit, but fruit is fruit. Oh, hey—“ He moves his bowl away from the machine and nods to Keith, who glances down at the reason he came here in the first place. “What flavour do you want? Anything in particular? Pidge and I upgraded the database.”

And this is what throws him every time, the simple ease of conversation, and Keith is silent for a moment before shrugging. He’s made it this far.

“Surprise me,” he says. Hunk’s grin is worth it.

//

Allura asks him at some point, after they’ve gathered information for their next recon assignment, “Is everything alright with your room?”

He blinks awkwardly, momentarily stunned, yet Allura is patient and beautiful, standing near the doorway with her hands folded in front of her. Everyone else has already left, gone for food or sleep or both, and Keith feels vaguely trapped. It’s a harmless question.

“It’s fine,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck. Allura narrows her eyes and suddenly it’s not so harmless anymore. “Seriously, I’m—“

“The combat logs do not lie, paladin,” she tells him, accented voice lined with a seriousness that reminds him of Shiro, and it clicks quicker than he can anticipate. “You’ve recorded more time than healthy, especially for a human.”

 _I don’t feel very human_ , he thinks, something like ice settling in his veins, and she’s watching him, worried and entirely too honest.

“Shiro put you up to this, didn’t he?” he asks instead, shoving his hands into his pockets, and Allura sighs.

“I understand trying to cope,” she says, looking years younger than the ten thousand and some he knows her to be, and it strikes him that she’s lost decades of her life and they’re the only family she has left. He gets it. “But you must learn to rest, too.”

“I will,” he says. He’s surprised to find he means it.

She smiles, soft and a little sad, says, “Sometimes we find peace in others,” and Keith watches her leave, torn between awe and frustration and everything in between.

//

“You’re leaving your flank open. Block left and watch the weight you put on your right leg.”

He readjusts. Shiro nods approvingly, striking towards his midsection, but Keith is prepared and blocks him easily, counts out a heartbeat before dragging his elbow up and aiming for Shiro’s nose. He’s deflected but it’s a second late, enough of a delay that Keith offers a taunting grin and says, “Getting slow, old man?”

“’Old’?” There’s a bark of laughter while Shiro swipes at his legs, nearly knocking Keith to the ground. “What’s with you guys and making age jokes? I’m barely older than any of you.”

“Yeah, well,” and here he slams out his fist and manages to land a hit on Shiro’s chest, hand flexing at the impact while Shiro attempts to stay righted. There’s a look of steely determination, something like approval in the curve of his lips, and Keith tries not to think too hard about it. “Not even sure how old _I_ am half the time.”

He’s a bit too distracted and Shiro takes the opportunity, sliding behind him as Keith strikes a second time and getting an arm wrapped around his neck. They’re both breathing heavily, muscles aching with exertion, and Keith can feel the sweat clinging to his skin as he’s freed from the prison of Shiro’s arm.

“You’re getting better,” he offers, heading towards the bench and grabbing a towel. He tosses one to Keith, says, “Still need to work on your footing—you’ve gotten too used to balancing a sword.”

He doesn’t tell Shiro that his left side is a knot of torn muscle, that half his ribs feel cracked and what doesn’t hurt is infinitely more sore the longer he trains; Allura’s words echo sharp with a tug somewhere below his stomach, but he’s coping.

He does ask, “What about you? Any more flashbacks?”

Shiro shakes his head, taking a seat on the floor and resting his head back against the wall. Keith settles with wiping the sweat off his brow and throwing the towel around his neck, too wound-up to sit, too exhausted to start another simulation; he has a feeling if he tries, Shiro will shut it down before he can begin.

“Not yet anyway,” he adds, a humorless laugh escaping him, and Keith folds his arms over his chest, staring helplessly at the sliding doors. No one else is awake at this time, yet the anxiety lingers under his skin, a burning need to _fleefighttrain_ despite the lack of immediate danger; Shiro must pick up on this, because suddenly there’s a foot kicking out at his own feet and Keith blinks back into focus. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, only partly a lie, and sighs through his teeth. The pain is starting to catch up with him. “Sorry, I guess it’s a bad night.”

“You could try to sleep.” At Keith’s look of minor betrayal, Shiro holds his hands up in placation and continues, “Or you could go lay down and _try_ to sleep. You’ve been awake longer than I have at this point.”

A bit desperately, he replies, “I can’t sleep,” a plea for Shiro to _get it_ , to understand that it’s not a matter of nightmares or terrors or aliens in the closet. It’s the weight of gravity on his chest, the darkness every time he closes his eyes, the thick, utter _fear_ that if he sleeps, he’ll wake up alone. It’s pathetic and too honest, something that sits under his tongue and refuses to speak.

“Try lying on your right side,” Shiro says, and Keith watches him take a deep breath before moving to stand up, using the wall as support and barely managing to cover the wince that crosses his face. Keith wants to ask. “If it’s sound that’s bothering you, or lack thereof—“

“It’s not the sound,” he attempts, explanations getting lodged in his throat, sticking to the back of his teeth. He makes an aborted movement with his hand, gesturing weakly towards the floor. “It’s—when we were falling, or floating, or whatever, did you… was there…?”

“It was terrifying.” There’s no hesitance, just pure honesty, and Keith looks up to meet Shiro’s gaze; he’s not the only ghost that haunts the gym lately. “It’s okay to be afraid—“

Keith scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he bites out, “I’m not _afraid_ , I just—“

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice is stern, eyes sharp where he meets Keith, and Keith wonders if he can get away with another sparring match, robot or no. Anything to burn the unease from his body. “You need to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be with me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he shoots back, shrugging, voice too strung out and his limbs too stiff. “We got stuck in space and nearly died. It’s a typical mission for us, who cares?”

“I do.” There’s a rebuttal on Keith’s lips, a knee-jerk reaction of _I’m fine_ , but Shiro beats him to it, says, “You’re not sleeping, you barely leave this room—”

“I show up to group training,” he tries. Shiro doesn’t buy it. “I don’t need _group therapy_. Everyone else has their methods.”

There’s a soft laugh, sad and leaving Keith hollowed out when Shiro murmurs, “You wouldn’t know that.”

Too much of this is real.

“You’re not sleeping either,” he points out instead, heading for the doors. Shiro reaches out, grabbing his arm gently and giving him the opportunity to slip out of his grasp if he needs to. He doesn’t. Quieter, he says, “I’m okay, Shiro.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, weighed heavy between them both, before Shiro shakes his head and lets him go.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” he echoes, following Keith’s footsteps to the sliding doors, “but think on it.”

//

He finds Lance on the way to his room and pauses, unsure of where they stand.

“You look like crap,” is all the other offers, pushing past Keith without sparing another glance, and Keith doesn’t bother trying to decipher him this time.

Their friendship was strained to begin with. Nothing has changed.

//

When he finally passes out from exertion in the simulation room, it’s a small blessing.

He wakes up with the worst cramp in his neck, dried blood flecked against his lip where he fell, and he doesn’t feel any different—certainly not better. His entire body aches, anxiety thick where it curls in his veins, and he buries his head in his hands and tries to remember how to breathe. It’s getting out of hand, all of this; even he can admit defeat when it slams into him without any relief, yet no solution has worked thus far. He could ask Coran for a sleeping aid, _something_ to help him close his eyes without seeing the abyss, but there’s little point. Frustration sparks and he digs his nails into his scalp, tugs at his hair and begs his mind to _slow the fuck down_ , and all he gets for his effort is misplaced fear.

“Count to five and hold your breath,” a familiar voice instructs, and Keith startles, jerking his head up to see Shiro looking at him with a mix of concern and exasperation. He realizes he’s shaking, lungs swelling within his chest, and attempts to follow the instructions. “That’s it, now breathe out slowly: one, two, three.”

It should be embarrassing, yet there’s nothing except his lungs relearning how to breathe and his heart under the palm of his hand and Shiro doesn’t push, just keeps a steady warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt as he talks Keith through breathing. He’ll probably be kicked from the team, probably deemed unfit to pilot his lion, but he’s too burned out to care.

“Are you with me?” Shiro asks, an indefinite period of time slipping by, and Keith is struck with the overwhelming urge to cry. He doesn’t.

“Sorry,” he mumbles instead, settling back against the wall when his legs refuse to cooperate, and Shiro takes up the space next to him, says, “Don’t apologize. It’s not always something you can control.”

“I _know_ that,” he growls, dragging a shaking hand through his hair roughly, and Shiro places a hand on his knee and squeezes lightly. “I’m trying, I’m not _weak_ , it’s just— _everything_ —at once—“

“Breathe.” Synched with Shiro, he tries again, the creeping, overwhelming sensation of _panic_ rushing to greet him as he struggles to articulate himself. He threw himself at Zarkon without a second thought, overwhelming defeat stacked against him, yet all it takes is the memory of endless, empty space to bring him to his knees. He breathes, but _fuck_ , it’s hard. “Some of the most experienced pilots I knew needed help to sleep sometimes, or get through the day, and that’s without what we’ve seen. It’s okay to be afraid.”

“Not _afraid_ ,” Keith grumbles, but it’s shaky at best and he drops his head between his knees and lets Shiro’s hand rest on the back of his neck. “People die.”

Shiro is silent for a few moments, fingers working carefully around the knob in Keith’s neck, before he says solemnly, “They do. But few things are stronger than a will to survive and protect.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Sometimes,” he agrees, and Keith tilts his head to actually look at Shiro, the solid bulk of him more comforting than Keith wants to admit. Shiro’s far away, a glaze to his eyes that Keith has seen before, and he continues to breathe in time, head spinning with dizzy relief. “Sometimes we do all we can and those we love still get hurt. But we fight anyway. It’s scary when you realize you’re not just fighting for yourself anymore, isn’t it?”

“How do you do it?” Keith asks, nearly silent, and maybe it’s the fact that Shiro has been through hell and back or maybe it’s because Keith just wants to believe _someone_ holds the answers to the sad, sorry state of his mind. “How do you go to sleep knowing…?”

“Because I’m not the only one fighting,” Shiro replies easily, something sliding back into place as he meets Keith’s eyes, and there’s a small smile curving his lips. “We’re a team. I trust that if anything ever goes wrong, I can count on you guys to have my back, and I’ll always have yours.”

“That’s…” It’s starting to feel normal again, whatever semblance of normalcy they had, and Keith struggles with a grin of his own before ducking his face against his arms and leaning to the side into Shiro’s space. “— _so_ cheesy, man.”

“Now _cheese_ ,” he gets in response, long-suffering with an accompanying sigh, “that’s something I miss.”

For the first time in days, Keith laughs.

//

“Spar with me.”

Lance has a mouthful of neon pink goop when Keith corners him. There’s probably some irony in there somewhere.

“…’at?” he manages, swallowing what he can of his snack. Keith wrinkles his nose and tries not to watch Lance’s throat bob with the movement, the sticky trace of the alien food at the corner of his lips.

“Spar,” Keith repeats instead, arms folded defensively across his chest, and he refuses to step any further into the kitchen. “With me.”

“Wha— _why_?” Lance seems less guarded like this, genuinely confused and probably a bit offended considering he’s in the middle of eating, but Keith doesn’t care.

“Because you’re being ridiculous!” It’s not the smoothest Keith has ever been; no turning back, though. “My eyes don’t shoot lasers, you know, you can actually stand to meet them every once in a while.”

“I’m not—what are you even! I’m eating! Don’t bring up your eyes!”

“It was a _metaphor_ ,” Keith snaps, barely resisting the urge to throw his hands in the air like a child or, in Lance’s case, an overdramatic pilot with terrible jokes. “Or… whatever! Spar with me! Get out it out of your system!”

“That’s not even a metaphor!” They’re both yelling now, voices rising more in pitch than in dignity, and Keith is regretting ever coming here. If Shiro finds them like this, or _Allura_ , they’re both so totally fucked. “And get _what_ out of my system? What are you talking about! It’s the middle of the night!”

“It’s _always the middle of the night!”_

“ _Stop yelling at me_!”

He’s not sure when it happened, but they’re both far too close to each other, close enough that Keith can smell the pseudo-grape flavour of Hunk’s latest creation, the hint of cologne that Lance managed to weasel out of Coran. Human contact has always been a stranger to him; this is no different, the yelling and the heaving chests and the rush of blood in his ears. He doesn’t know where to go from here, why he came here in the first place, but there’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Pidge in his subconscious that gently reminds him of his loneliness. In the end, nothing has really changed, and there’s the root of the problem:

Keith misses Lance, and he’s not even sure _why_.

“Sorry,” he mutters instead, stepping back to put some distance between them, and Lance is glaring as though his look alone will be enough to have Keith whither through the floor. It’s a valiant effort. He makes an aborted movement with his hand, awkward and jerky and terribly out of sync with the rest of his body. “Just… you know.”

Lance blinks, waving his hands, and snaps, “ _No_ , I don’t, because you’re the one who came in here demanding me to kick your ass!”

“I said _spar_ ,” he corrects, though it’s probably useless at this point, and Lance’s raised eyebrow answers that for him. He sighs, rubbing at his forehead and desperately urging away the building headache as he adds, “Look, whatever, you’ve been acting weird so I figured it had something to do with when we sparred, but I don’t fucking know. Just—“

“Hey,” Lance interrupts, finally putting down his bowl of goop, and Keith spares a moment to be impressed that it managed to stay in the bowl, “ _You’re_ the one who never leaves the stupid training room, okay? I’m pretty sure you forgot that _other people exist_ on this ship.”

Whatever Keith had been confused about before is multiplied tenfold at the half-assed explanation, but Lance is being _sincere_ and _genuine_ and Keith hates that he can tell the difference, that he’s paying attention to quirks he shouldn’t give a damn about.

“What are you talking about?”

Lance sighs. Hunches over in defeat, fingers stained with the pink goo. He sounds terribly young when he says, “You’re not the only one with nightmares.”

“I never said—“

“Yeah, we get it, okay? You’re fine, you’re invincible, you _are a complete moron_. No wonder you got kicked out of the Garrison.”

“Don’t,” Keith snaps, taking a deep breath. “Just—spar with me. C’mon.”

Lance must realize that he’s stepped over a line, or maybe he’s just as sick of everything as Keith is, because there’s only a second of hesitation before he nods.

“Fine,” he says, a bit angry, a lot tired, “but no bets this time.”

“No bets,” Keith agrees. “Deal.”

//

“If you wanted me to kick your ass so badly, you only had to ask,” Lance says, chest heaving as he blocks another of Keith’s attacks, and Keith finds himself growing impatient, desperate for something he can’t figure out. Lance keeps up, dodging right and swinging left, managing to catch Keith just under his ribs, and it’s hard to ignore the burst of pain that explodes between his bones. He tries, grunting as Lance swings again and says, “Losing your touch, mullet boy?”

“Shut up,” Keith growls, kicking out his leg. He’s surprised when Lance actually manages to avoid him, effortlessly sliding back before attempting to slam his knee into Keith’s midsection. It’s an amateur move, yet Keith gets blindsided by it anyway, too slow to dodge. He doubles over, bracing himself against the ground as spots dot his vision, pain driving him to his knees.

“ _Shit_ ,” Lance breathes, losing steam just as quick, and Keith tries to push off the offending hands as Lance attempts to move him onto his back. There’s a flush to his face that has Keith blinking in momentary confusion, exhaustion winning out over potential internal injuries, and Lance _won’t shut up_. “Ay, you dumbass, why didn’t you—you’re not supposed to let me actually hit you, _dios_ , are you okay?”

“M’fine,” he mumbles, waving off Lance’s concern in vain. “Seriously, I’m— _ow_ , don’t fucking poke me—“

“Shut up and let me help you!”

Keith ceases in his efforts to get Lance away from him, staring up warily at the other pilot, searching for something he isn’t entirely sure of; there’s nothing but open worry staring back at him, frustration creased in Lance’s brow and shadows under his eyes that feels an awful lot like looking in a mirror. They both must look pretty terrible at this point; regardless, he nods minutely, not bothering to fight when Lance tugs up his shirt and breathes out at the sight.

“You’re an idiot,” Lance tells him, shaking his head, and Keith breathes in through his nose, tries to remember what it’s like to not have every inhale-exhale taste like blood. “Seriously, what is wrong with you, do you not feel pain? Is that it?”

“Lance,” he mutters, three seconds away from either slapping the other across the face or throwing up, “just—“

“Nope, no, I’m getting Shiro—“

“I’m—“

Lance’s hands are suddenly fisted in his shirt, warm breath ghosting against dry, cracked lips as he’s met with an angry, pissed off face a heartbeat away from his own, voice like fire as he says harshly, “ _No_ , don’t you dare say you’re fine, _none of us are fine_.”

Silence. Keith can hear his blood pounding in his ears, the proximity between the two of them tugging somewhere in the hollow of his ribcage, and he swallows thickly.

“Your bruises literally have bruises,” Lance continues, as if he hasn’t just thrown Keith into a whole different crisis. “We all have our crap to deal with, I get it, but at least we’re _talking it out_ , or trying, but you don’t even—you won’t _talk_ to us.”

 _We’re talking now_ , he realizes, clearer than anything else has been for days. Lance is close enough to touch, losing whatever battle he’s waging inside his own head, and Keith drags him down before he can regret it, presses dry lips against a warm mouth, breathing past the guilt that tries to choke him as Lance stutters. Lance, who doesn’t pull away, who spends three seconds staring at Keith in shock until he’s kissing back, and something slides into place between them, the missing piece, the rawness of brutal honesty. The fight drains out of him, his hands loosening where they’ve gripped Keith’s shirt, and when he breaks the kiss, his face is flushed; Keith meets his eyes, pinned down under a thousand questions, but Lance just falls back, half on Keith as he drags a hand through his hair, and Keith rests an arm over his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” Lance tells him. “Why did I think this was a good idea? You’re an idiot. An insufferable, angry, gorgeous idiot.”

Another beat of silence.

“And I hate you,” he tacks on for good measure, though Keith can hear the unspoken _not really_ , his face heating up at more than just the subtle confession. His skin feels too tight, his body not his own, yet Lance is an anchor where his weight rests against Keith’s thigh, the angle of his hip. “I should get Shiro.”

“I just want to sleep,” Keith admits, quiet and some sort of vulnerable.

But Lance simply says, “If this is your way of getting me into bed, you’re not doing a very good job,” and Keith lets out a half-sob, half-laugh that has them both shaking.

It hurts, physically, and Keith can taste the blood under his tongue and the weight of promises he can’t keep even in this vacuum they’ve created in a corner of space, and yet.

“You’re still an idiot,” Lance says slowly, as if speaking to a particularly difficult child. He moves to stand, hooking an arm under Keith’s and dragging him up. “And I really think you should go see Shiro, or… the infirmary, or something. How do you still have ribs?”

“Tomorrow,” he mutters, leaning on Lance, and he allows himself this. “I really do just want to sleep.”

“But you can’t.” It’s not a question. Keith shakes his head, watching the floor carefully as they head out through the doors. “Dude, you need to talk to Shiro, or Coran. No one can exist on fumes alone.”

“What about you?” he mutters, Lance’s voice a mantra in his head, _none of us are fine_.

“I had Pidge do some technical upgrades to my iPod,” he explains, guiding Keith through the hallway, and he’s pretty sure they’re not heading towards Keith’s room; at this point, he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to throw up his walls when he’s more concerned about not throwing up his breakfast. “Y’know, some touches from home.”

He wants to say _no, I don’t know_ , the only home he knows being the one they’re currently haunting, but Lance continues on, fills up the empty silence with, “Anyway, it helps with the… well, the homesickness, and if you laugh, I’ll throw you out the airlock.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he murmurs honestly, thinks, _I’m not patronizing you_ , wonders how much he can leave unsaid without destroying something that hasn’t even begun. Lance huffs, readjusting so Keith can walk a bit more comfortably, and miraculously, they manage to steer clear of anyone else on the way to what Keith has correctly guessed is Lance’s room.

“Good, because it would be _very easy_ to drop your heavy butt right here.”

Instead of gracing that with a reply, Keith merely laughs quietly, hiding a grimace when it has a new wave of pain flaring up in his abdomen; Lance hesitates, glancing down and debating something Keith doesn’t bother to decipher, before offering a quiet, “You can stay for the night, if you want. Or I can drag you to Shiro.”

“What’s wrong with my room?” he asks rhetorically, already knowing the answer, but Lance takes him seriously, shakes his head and presses a few buttons on the panel to open the door.

“I dunno man, that’s something everyone’s been wondering for a while now,” he says, depositing Keith on the bed and heading towards the closet. Keith, for his part, crawls to the back, settles himself against the wall and tries to teach his lungs how to breathe through insistent pain. “So you tell me.”

Keith doesn’t; instead, he takes in the space, sees the various photographs Lance has taken plastered to the wall—photos of the planets they’ve seen, the forests that seemed like earth, the endless constellations and boundless stars surrounding them. Lance catches him staring, says, “They’re not so mysterious when up close. Just dangerous.”

“They’re good,” he tells him, nodding to the one of Pidge perched on Hunk’s shoulders. Keith can see himself in a few of them, pictures he can’t recall Lance having taken, and it leaves him warmer than strictly comfortable. “Keepsakes?”

Lance shrugs. “Figure someone should document the whole universe-saving experience.”

“Does it help?”

“Sort of,” he replies, shrugging out of his shirt and throwing on a sweater that’s three sizes too big. It almost looks like Hunk’s, a question for another day as Lance continues, “It’s the… noiselessness, you know? No birds, no crickets, no waves. It’s weird. So Pidge—well, let me show you.”

He digs around for a few minutes, grabbing a pair of headphones and his iPod, and Keith scoots over a bit to give Lance some space; it’s in vain, as Lance seems to have no concept of personal bubbles as he throws himself down next to Keith, motioning towards the side of the bed that remains empty. This should be weird, should be transcending every barrier they’ve ever put up between each other, yet Keith is too tired to fight and Lance is offering peace. Maybe they’ll both wake up to regret it, Keith laying down next to Lance, close enough to breathe the same air, to feel the sharp angles of his hipbones; maybe they’ll wake up and realize it was a mistake. He’ll cross that bridge later—for now, he lets Lance hand him an earbud, the iPod placed on Keith’s chest as the sound of the ocean washes over him.

“Pidge picked up some recordings,” Lance explains, staring up at the ceiling and tapping the tips of his fingers against his stomach. “It helps.”

“You miss Earth,” Keith points out quietly. He knew this, yet the reality of Lance’s homesickness strikes a chord, a plight Keith can’t understand.

“I miss my family,” Lance semi-corrects, watching in amusement as Keith picks up the iPod and flips through the options. He eventually settles on a recording of a thunderstorm, more rain than anything, and closes his eyes, imagines the lightning streaking across a dark sky, illuminating the outline of heavy clouds. It’s comforting. “I miss my mom.”

“You’ll see them again,” Keith murmurs, finding conviction in the spaces between his lungs. Lance laughs, Keith cracking his eyes open to see him shift so he’s on his side, and he studies Keith in a way that makes him somewhat unsettled. He’s not used to this kind of attention. He thinks, maybe, Lance isn’t either.

And then Lance says, “You have us, you know,” and he finally understands the notion of early-late conversations, the secrets shared when the sun is down, and isn’t that awfully fitting.

“If this is you hating me, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Lance mutters, shoving his hands under his head and attempting to get comfortable. Keith smiles, small and sad, stares at the inch between his body and Lance’s. It’d be easy to shift over. Lance must pick up on this, opening his eyes only to roll them at Keith, and there’s a split second of hesitance before Lance throws an arm over Keith’s hips and buries his face in the material of his shirt.

“I haven’t showered yet,” Keith points out uselessly, unsure of what to do with his hands, if he should roll over or stay where he is.

“Stop overthinking it.”

“I’m _not_ —“

“I can hear you thinking all the way over here.” Lance’s arm tightens around his frame, seeking out Keith’s hand, and when fingers intertwine with his own, Keith squeezes back. Around a yawn, he grumbles, “You’re like my sister. Can never just _do nothing_.”

“Please don’t compare me to your sister while I’m in your bed,” he gripes in response, giving up on any pretense of knowing what the hell he’s doing and tangling his legs with Lance’s. Exhaustion fits like an old blanket, and Lance’s breathing is silent and strong where his nose is pressed against his shoulder.

Lance doesn’t answer, and Keith follows him into blissful, quiet unconsciousness.

//

He wakes up to darkness, a note on the pillow and a small, yellow pill, half the size of his thumbnail. He reads the note first, reaching blindly for the bedside light, and he’s met with the messy scrawl of Lance’s handwriting, surprised to find it easing the hollowed ache within the curve of his bones, the warmth of someone else as more than a concept.

_space advil, or what shiro says is space advil, try not to die in my bed pls and ty_

It’s a start.

(& he’s all about starting over lately.)

**Author's Note:**

> you can hmu @ [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/windsprout)


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